


Thought you were on my side

by newmoons



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, LGBT, Romance, Widowtracer, queer, wlw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26988487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newmoons/pseuds/newmoons
Relationships: Amélie Lacroix/Lena Oxton, Lena "Tracer" Oxton/Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, Lena Oxton x Widowmaker, Lena Oxton/Amélie Lacroix, Lena Oxton/Widowmaker, Tracer X Widowmaker, Tracer/Widowmaker, Widowmaker x Lena Oxton, Widowmaker/Lena Oxton, Widowmaker/Tracer, Widowtracer - Relationship, amelie lacroix x lena oxton, lena "tracer" oxton/widowmaker, lena oxton x amelie lacroix, widowmaker x tracer
Kudos: 7





	Thought you were on my side

Tracer was the fastest hero alive, but even she couldn’t run from herself.

Widowmaker had left without any answers, but she should have expected that, shouldn’t she? The assassin had never been anything but cold and distant with her. What else had she expected, really? They were lovers on the sun: burning together and cold apart.

She lost count of how many times she’d tried to recall into the past, to somehow change what she’d said that had let Widowmaker grapplehook out her large windows and into the cold night that had pushed through her empty chest immediately, forcing her to her knees and gripping what was left of her heart.

She had tried to fix things, hadn’t she? She had offered everything and anything that she could: words on deaf ears but Widowmaker could still see the veins in Tracer’s neck and the shake of her heads as she screamed for her to listen, to hear. It had all been useless: Widowmaker did not let her done slowly. She hadn’t even tried, but had only looked over her shoulder in some lost attempt at hope before she left one last time.

Every effort Tracer had made for them had been a useless endeavor after all, testament only to her good nature that was taken advantage of at the end. It was nonetheless derived from a lost attempt at reconciliation that still lived in her heart. If there had ever been any effort on Widowmaker’s part for their continuation, Tracer had not seen it plainly. Instead, she had only seen obstacles that fought for her attention the same way Tracer fought unarmed and exposed for Widowmaker’s. She was bloody and she was beaten, but she would still walk the battlefield for survivors of a lost battle- and weren’t they at war? She found herself exhausted at the end of every day and it was no doubt that it came from the cessation of their foundation, and what else could she have done but communicate?

Tracer still hoped everything had meant something to Widowmaker the way it still haunted her in her dreams, watched her like a shadow even in the comfort of her own apartment that was now foreign with the absence of things that they had shared: at some point, Widowmaker must have taken her things when Tracer was gone. She hadn’t taken the gifts she’d bought for Tracer, though, and so her eyes glazed over the objects as if they were completely absent- for the betterment of her heart in her own interest.

Mercy was concerned for her, at this point. She was bedridden and refused to eat, only lifting herself from tear-stained sheets to close the blinds and return to her refuge under where she could close her eyes and forget, forget, forget, until the dreams came again and she sat up gasping, reaching for someone who wasn’t there anymore- and never would be again. She would swallow her sobs until she couldn’t anymore, wailing into her pillows as she gasped for useless air: it didn’t matter, her lungs were drowning in an ocean, anyways.

Did Widowmaker care at all? She wondered if she had done enough to return the woman to her former self in the capacity of her memory, if the brainwashing would return or, worse, if the woman would request their time together to be washed from her consciousness like a bad dream. The thought provoked a nauseousness in her that paid tribute to her bathroom, bent over the porcelain in tears.

The worst part had to be that Tracer could clearly see Widowmaker without her, dressed up in a different way from when she had been with her, and sitting in a bar looking immaculate, gorgeous, like a goddess from some sick myth that would never be in Tracer’s reality again. She wondered what those manicured nails would do later that night, what the arch of her spine would look like under another somebody’s night lights. How could she have let this happen?

It had slipped through her fingers like sand. There had been no fight from Widowmaker, no glance towards her that offered a saving grace. What had she missed? When had Widowmaker become so cold and distant again? Had they not spent the night before blissfully asleep, and the week before marking each other’s skin in territorial conviction? Her eyebrows furrowed for hours as she paced her apartment in anxiety. What could she have done?

Was she a liar? Had she not done enough? She had twisted herself into an unrecognizable shadow of herself as she had waited for Widowmaker’s return: censoring and silencing herself for hours and days of silence that caused her nothing but unbearable pain, spending her time in bed checking her phone and withdrawing from any and every conversation that came her way for hope of the latest notification being her estranged partner. It hadn’t done a thing.

Tracer wrapped two hands around her drink as she remembered the night before. Tracer was a hard worker, and did not often leave herself a day off, but had taken more time to herself than was usual for their breakup. Yesterday had been one of those days, as it would have marked 11 months into their relationship with Widowmaker and, sadly, she was remembering the moment it had caught up to them.

Even Emily visited. She hadn’t expected it, but should have. For days, she had been left swimming in realities that seemed too real, like memories come to life. She had first begun to withdraw, attempting to pretend it was the cartoons that Emily had put on that she was absorbed in, but her eyes had drifted to the bottom or corners of the television and she had started to sniffle, wiping at her eyes when she noticed tears.

Emily had noticed the tremble of Tracer’s lip until her chest heaved and her breathing broke into scattered sobs, fresh tears rolling down her face until somehow, somehow, she was sobbing into Emily’s chest, hugging herself too close to breathe properly and inhaling an unfamiliar scent that choked her with the sense of its newness. Despite the woman’s generous offering of her time and support, Tracer somehow felt she shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be shouldering this onto Emily, but she couldn’t stop gasping for air, couldn’t pull herself together enough to apologize properly, only blubbering words spilling past her lips between confessions of pain. “Why doesn’t she want me?” She wailed over and over, uncertain whether the sounds coming from Emily were soothing or advice at this point, lost in her despair.

She couldn’t breathe right, and her mind couldn’t stop conjuring their breakup, and the way Widowmaker’s eyes had been downcast, how she had said this was hurting her, too. Then why? Why? For three weeks, apparently, the woman had been sitting on secrets that maybe, maybe she could have saved if Tracer had known, but Widow had the tendency to withdraw when things went wrong, and Tracer hadn’t noticed in her desperate attempts to reconnect with the suddenly distant and cold woman.

She tried to remember that, to remember what the ending was really like, and how she wouldn’t prefer to be back in that position, but all they could see was Widowmaker’s smile behind her eyes. A smile that she would likely never see again, but someone else would for the rest of their life. She wanted to puke at the thought. What was wrong with her? It had been four months! Four months and she was still practically bedridden with borrowed guilt that shouldn’t belong to her, that even her therapist and friends released her from when they heard how Widowmaker had left: no closure had been offered, no answers to her questions; it had all been a gaping wound barely stitched together until now, and as Tracer attempted to wrangle herself into cohesion, they realized in some clarity, some eye of the storm.

Emily had eventually stopped trying to whisper her into coherence, but now seemed deadly serious in the silence of Tracer’s wide-eyed healing. She reeled back to look Emily in the eye, saw something unrecognizable in that genuine stare. Eventually, she nodded, and returned to her babied position in the fetal curl, this time holding Emily’s hand in both of hers, rubbing thoughtful circles into the back of her hand. She stared at the designs of Emily’s shirt, at the ceiling, with a feeling of sudden… calm. It was unnerving but absolutely welcome, and she blinked as if she were in a dream. For once, for a moment, she was okay, and she knew, she knew that if she had stayed at home, she wouldn’t have broken down, and would likely have spent her night either waiting on a text or waiting on a reply, sick to her stomach and pacing her apartment for hours on end.

Instead, she’d found some moment of peace, and maybe they truly had Emily to thank for that. She burrowed deeper into Emily’s chest, rested a hand on the woman’s side, running up and down her curves. It wasn’t weird, was it? It felt nice. It felt like the thing to do, given the comfort she had received. She didn’t comment, regardless, the wreck she was, like a startled animal that might run away with any sudden noise. Instead, she kept the movement until she fell asleep, breathing easy for the first time in four months.


End file.
